It is a night where I must craft my words
or try to weave lines on a broken loom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

Stillborn inspiration can't be stirred,
emotions drained away. I must assume
it is a night where I must craft my words.

My prayers to Muse fell back to earth, unheard.
All artistry has booked a separate room.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

Striving merely churns my brain to curds,
its thin gray whey runs down some gutter's flume.
It is a night where I must craft my words.

A cadenced resolution's been deferred,
the last two lines will surely be my doom.
To think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

A peaceful flow of writing is deterred
until my buried spirit is exhumed.
It is a night where I must craft my words,
to think a poem will spring forth is absurd.

My knees weaken when I see you

half smiling lips and wine soaked breath

I am still faithful

a shadow, shadow that walks

without body

without a solid shape

I turned to God once, ideally,
my mouth forming prayers I'd saved

for you

muttering malice into the nothingness

etching memories the way they etch gravestones

a black crayon and blank paper,
pressing hard and hoping

that the colours will somehow
bloom into meaning

Godless, knees shaking

a single handshake and I am
crucified

I feel an emptiness,
Somewhere deep inside me.
The hole you fill,
Is open now.
I miss you,
I yearn for you.
Where are you?
I wish I knew.
I'm dying here.....
I want you,
I need you,
I crave you,
Where are you?
I keep asking myself;
Where are you?
I need to talk to you,
Or suffer a sleepless night.
My mind is nothing but you.
My everything.
I miss you.